


Girl of Mine

by mcgoogle_random



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Depression, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Originally Posted on FanFiction.Net, Post-Endgame, buckynat - Freeform, idk this is my first fic here, song fic i guess, winterwidow - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24541156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcgoogle_random/pseuds/mcgoogle_random
Summary: Bucky tries to cope with Natashas death.Inspired by Blue Rodeos, Girls of Mine lyrics
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Natasha Romanov, James "Bucky" Barnes/Natasha Romanov
Kudos: 15





	Girl of Mine

It was Steve who told me the news. 

Steve, who held me while I sobbed like a little baby. 

It wasn’t Clint or Bruce, no. 

It was Steve who told me she was never coming back. How she had sacrificed her life for us all. How her body lay cold and alone at the bottom of a cliff in exchange for a fucking stone. 

There was no funeral, no family to call, just memories shared and cherished between the survivors. Unlike Tony, who had a wife and child that needed support. I couldn’t bear to watch as the little girl started sobbing in the house, her mother numb to emotion, trying in vain to comfort her as she buried her own tears for the darkness of her room and the bottom of a bottle. He had had a life while we were gone. He made the best out of the worst situation. 

And God, how I envy him. While he was happily playing house with his new daughter and wife, I missed out on another five years of my life. I was getting better, the memories were coming back clearer than ever. Little things like how Steve likes his eggs in the morning and how Natasha never outwardly said “I love you”, but rather showed it in tiny, meaningful gestures that I only now recognize. How she refused to call me Bucky, even though everyone else did and insisted on calling me James. I had hated my name until she said it. She always smiled when she did, no matter her mood.

But I envy him most because he had the life I wanted, the one I dreamed of. The one that haunts me in the middle of sleepless nights. The one that was taken from me the moment the goddamned graduation ceremony was complete. The splintered reverie of a picket fence and little brunette children running on crisp green lawns. Of Natasha, with her red hair thrown in a bun baking cookies, because “there is never a bad time for cookies”.   
Lately it seems as though every night, her face becomes more blurry until I remember nothing but her smile and the twinkle in her ever green eyes. I wake up in cold sweats with my hair stuck to damp cheeks, my breath coming in short, ragged inhales until I convince myself that she’s gone, that it’s only another dream. Then out of habit, I find myself on the fire escape with a cigarette between my lips, letting the smoke burn away the last shards of my dreams. 

And it’s in these moments I find the words I could have said to her. How I could tell her I remember everything about her, from the way she ties her shoes to the way she never misses a chance to dance. How she always read in the corner of the couch, never the middle. I could tell her I love her, and mean it from the very depths of my undeserving soul. 

But she’s gone, and my words fall on the deaf ears of the night and I wonder what I could have done differently. I trace through scattered years of memories, trying to find out where the fuck I went wrong. 

Maybe if I had run away sooner.

Maybe if we had escaped together.

Maybe if it was me who jumped instead.

Maybes and what ifs fill my head until I snuff out my cigarette and light another, the fresh tobacco filling my lungs and fogging up my brain.  
Maybe, if I had been stronger, I could have lived out that dream. Reality comes rushing back and the brisk chill of approaching dawn coaxes me inside. With a final drag, I watch as the first rays of the morning cut through the grey sky. I don’t dare return to my room until after breakfast knowing that once I see her hairbrush on the vanity, I’ll end up crying on the floor until either Sam or Steve wakes up and finds me. The damn thing causes me so much pain, yet it’s one of the few things that tie me to her. 

I remember watching as she sat in front of the mirror and concentrated on the smallest details of her makeup, whether it was for a mission or a gala. Not like she needed it though. She was always the most gorgeous one there. 

The rest of the day passes in a haze and next thing I know it’s five o’clock and I’m downing shots at the local bar. The barkeep had dubbed me a regular as he filled up another row, “on the house”. He watches as I throw another back, and asks why I’m here. I shoot him a look that says to leave it alone and with a defeated huff, he moves on to the next customer. It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it, no in fact it’s the opposite. But I know I can’t do it without thinking about her quirky little smile. The one that seems out of place on the famed assassin but oh so perfect for her. I chase away the thought with another tequila and decide it’s best if I go. My throat is used to the burn of the liquor and the blasted serum in my body refuses to let me get drunk. I leave my bill by the cash and head out towards home, if it can still be called that. Now it’s just a house, a resting spot, one of the few places Hydra doesn’t know about. Natasha made it a home. Now the only thing left of that home is a hairbrush on the vanity,

A shirt in the closet,

A picture on the wall. 

Even when we fought behind closed doors, we always found a way to make it work. Even if one of us stormed out, we knew we could only ever feel safe together. 

But I had left her alone. I had vanished for five years without so much as a goodbye. If we felt safe together, what were we apart? I could only imagine what it was like for her. She didn’t deserve any of this. She deserved to be happy. 

She deserved the right to dance freely without demanding voices guiding her every move. 

She deserved better than a veteran amputee with no memory and a ledger spilling over with red. 

She deserved the right to live her life as she wanted, with the ones she trusted.

I lay down in my bed as these thoughts spin through my head, mapping themselves out on the blank canvas of my ceiling and I can’t help but smile. She had found people to trust.

She found it in Steve. 

And in Sam and Clint.

Even in Tony.

She even found it in her heart to trust me, the one who has caused her the most pain. The one that embodies her worst nightmare. She still found a way to trust me. 

As sleep draws me closer in it’s sweet embrace, I picture her smile bright and cheerful as she laughs and I can’t help but pray to whatever God there is to please watch over her. She doesn’t need to be monitored no. But if God could, for my sake look out for her, I would be eternally grateful. Maybe it’s selfish of me to want someone to protect her spirit. 

As her laughter fades into the sound of rain on the window and I succumb to the gentle escape of sleep I pray that she was happy in her final moments.

That she knew how much she was loved when she gave away her bruised soul.

Because I know now what love is. 

Love is letting people be there for you at your most vulnerable.

It’s remembering little details that others may overlook.

It’s about sacrificing the little things to see the other person happy from time to time.

It’s recognizing that it’s about what one does and not what one says.

And I can’t help but feel like I failed her for not knowing this sooner.


End file.
